


Don't Fuck With My Heart

by pastelviper



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Crack Relationships, F/M, Falling In Love, Female Mammon | Viper, Heartbreak, If I remember, Mammon POV, daevi, more tag in the future, varia are just mentioned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-06
Updated: 2018-06-06
Packaged: 2019-05-19 01:47:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14864318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pastelviper/pseuds/pastelviper
Summary: •When you are one of the strongest being on the world books can be your only true friends.•Only until they make you find...someone.•Feeling emotions is terribly dangerous when you are not used anymore.{translation of an old fanfic of mine}





	Don't Fuck With My Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Please, forgive my bad english

  
Read. I think that reading is the reason why time goes by. I don’t see any other plausible reason.

  
I had read a lot in my life.

  
Both as human…

  
…and as Arcobaleno.

  
I've read for boredom.

  
I've read because I was forced.

  
I've read for study.

  
I've read to conquer power.

  
I've read for not cry.

  
But sometimes it’s reading…that make us suffer.

  
If I could say that I had had friends in my life, I would say that books had been my friends.

  
Of course.

  
I’m not a very friend-like type person, am I not?

  
Of course I’m not.

  
Don’t you dare bringing up that subspecies of prince.

  
I share my room only with books.

  
I even sleep on them, now that I realize it.

  
Some of them, when open, embrace me better than a bed.

  
The smell of those pages, of those inks,

  
The smell of whoever had owned that book before becoming the place of my rest,

  
Purify my spirit.

  
I had always read a lot in my life.

  
Even when I couldn’t.

  
It’s a luxury that I always imposed myself.

  
Not everything that I wanted was accessible to everyone…

  
…at my times.

  
Maybe the Art of Illusions entered in me at that point.

  
God…

  
I’ve always been invisible,

  
Even if people would have noticed me.

  
I earned everything I have read,

  
Even if that meant to meet new people.

  
Maybe some of them weren’t that bad,

  
But I don’t remember their faces.

  
I clearly remember their voices,

  
Their words,

  
Everything that someone’s life could have thought me, I remember,

  
I remember their souls,

  
But nothing else.

  
Maybe browsing in the books that, thanks to them, I was able to read or buy, I’ll remember them!

  
My life is reflected in everything that has been written:

  
A page,

  
A banknote…

  
And if it isn’t written, it’s only a mere unfocused shadow seen through this purplish surface of this sentence I have around my neck.

  
It really feels like a choker, sometimes…during the night.

  
Me…the one that always had felt free:

  
I liked my body,

  
Androgynous,

  
Free from the gender boundaries,

  
My face hidden to everyone,

  
Free from the beauty standards;

  
My wisdom estimated by the pages of the book that i have read,

  
Free because NO ONE had ever counted them;

  
My art!

  
Free because fake and so nearly perfect!

  
The Art of the Illusions has been my real vocation,

  
My way,

  
My life.

  
Measure the perfection of the falsity:

  
Pure magnificence.

  
Magnificence for who had always had to lie, to have.

  
It didn’t matter!

  
Never i was myself,

  
I don’t know who i am.

  
This thought remind me of why i’m writing.

  
It was long time ago, when i joined the Varia, i neither remember if the Boss was already at the head of the squad, but it was before the Curse, i remember it.

  
The things were less big, that’s why.

  
It was when, by chance, I passed by Vongola’s library, I was with other members, but of course I was by myself, wary and haughty toward them, even if I’m still so now but, strangely, less.

  
I remember the beautiful inlaid door, made of a wood that nowadays doesn’t give it justice anymore.

  
I remember the darkness inside of it, the door half closed:

  
I entered without caring of asking if i could go in there at the Boss of the Varia,

  
It wasn’t Xanxus...try to be in my shoes.

  
I remember the gloomy atmosphere.

  
Everything around me was...perfect.

  
Shelves after shelves,

  
All around the walls that at the time seemed infinite to me.

  
I locked the door..

  
My God...my eyes,

  
My real eyes.

  
Without the darkness of the hood interposing,

  
My eyes filled themself with that magnificence.

  
I untied my black cape,

  
Removing it.

  
I was alone.

  
Alone in that darkness surrounded by tomes and tomes of any kind,

  
I nearly felt watched,

  
Like thousand of beings that were looking at that Outcast that had entered and stood there naked.

  
I perfectly remember my black pants sticks at my legs,

  
The shirt touching my skin at every breathe,

  
The heaviness of my boots at every step,

  
The lightly curled hair on the shoulders and on the back moving at every movement of my head,

  
Too busy following my eyes’ primary needs.

  
I was feeling my whole body.

  
Phantasma was croaking on a table,

  
But very soon i was feeling him on my head,

  
And he was a golden circle.

  
My loyal horoborus.

  
I fluctuate among the shelves, reading the title of all those books, of the ones that i was able to read, I took some of them and i went back down.

  
That place was huge.

  
With a soft thump I heard Phantasma on my head.

  
My overweight toad.

  
I covered up a whole table with the selected books.

  
I was feeling my whole body and that was starting to get on my nerves.

  
I don’t know for how long I sit on the window with a book on my legs and Phantasma croaking or snoring.

  
...

  
Will i ever arrive at the point?

  
Yes.

  
In all that atmosphere I found a book, about the Vongola.

  
In my fluctuating through the shelves, it came at my mind that i had joined the Vongola without knowing anything about them.

  
Or at least, without knowing enough for my standard.

  
So, ended one book, on my legs had arrived one with a black leather cover, with the family logo in golden string.

  
It looked very old.

  
I liked it immediately.

  
The pages were screeching lovely and softly when I was turning them.

  
I started reading it.

  
No one ever came after me.

  
The first Boss of the family was Giotto Vongola.

  
A boy not very tall, blond, with hazel eyes that the hypermode changes in light golden.

  
He was described as a very kind and diplomatic Boss.

  
G., was his vice, and it seemed that he had founded the family with Giotto.

  
He was a boy taller than Giotto, with red hair and a strange tattoo (or at least it seemed) on the right part of his face and neck.

  
Contradictory to his Boss, G. was a very wary person.

  
Giotto had at his side six Guardians:

  
Alaude, Cloud;

  
Ugetsu Asari, Rain;

  
Knucle, Sun;

  
Lampo, Thunder;

  
G. himself was part of this first generation of these Guardians, as Storm Guardian;

  
And then…

  
Daemon Spade, Mist.

  
Daemon...Spade…

  
That name echoed in my mind countless times.

  
Daemon Spade.

  
It sounded new to me…

  
But at the same time it wasn’t.

  
It was an horrible sensation.

  
I knew to know who he was,

  
Yet it was like i’d just met him…

  
As First Vongola Mist Guardian he was for sure one of the Masters of the Art of Illusions but…

  
It wasn’t that the information that i couldn’t remember.

  
I kept reading.

  
But there wasn’t much, nothing that could help my mind to re-find what it was searching.

  
All obvious stuff.

  
I was in need of an epiphany.

  
A piece of something that could open a world.

  
I’ve read all that tome.

  
I’ve read it faster than usual.

  
I was useless.

  
Day after day i went back to the library and i’ve read and read and read.

  
I was reading to find,

  
I was reading...but not like the other times.

  
I was searching for him.

  
I was searching...him.

  
One day, i don’t remember in which book, i found out a photo.

  
God, i don’t remember the book.

  
In which pitiful conditions i was…

  
I found out a photo.

  
And there was Giotto.

  
Giotto...with his Guardians.

  
…

  
There he was…

  
There…

  
At the right side of the photo…

  
Daemon Spade.

  
A void was opened in my chest.

  
He was...so young.

  
Eyes and hair light in color.

  
Light blue the first...and...of a darker shade the second.

  
For the fuck’ sake, he seemed to have just came out a circus!

  
What the hell was he wearing?!

  
The photo was visibly ruined:

  
The ones i thought being Knucle,G. And Alaude were only partially visibly, a portion of Giotto was burned and there was an hole at his left side, like there was at Daemon’s.

  
That photo was the first turn of the key that could open the door of my ‘Daemon Spade’ mystery.

  
But that discovery didn’t satisfied me.

  
Every free moment i had between missions was spent in that room, searching, searching,

  
Searching him.

  
Again.

  
And again.

  
He was my obsession.

  
I was repeating myself that it was fundamental for my illusory skills to find informations about him, because he sure was capable of glorious things!

  
And i wanted them.

  
But I was starting to feel odd, like someone laughing, inside of me.

  
Was i becoming a joke for myself?

  
More days passed by and my research had become morbid, I wasn’t carrying out my missions excluding the times I was threatened to not being paid and even in that case I did my duty as fast as possible to back at the library.

  
I was starting to skip nights of sleep.

  
The only idea of eating disgusted me.

  
My condition was creating subconsciously horrible illusions that were able to scary anyone away from that room, even if the unlucky one just wanted to talk to me or was in need of a book.

  
I lost weight.

  
I was emaciated.

  
Dark and deep circles under my eyes.

  
The marks on my face had becoming sharper, in line with my even more sunken cheeks.

  
Phantasma itself was weirded out about my presence.

  
It arrived the moment in which i nearly became violent.

  
I couldn’t find anything about that man detailed enough.

  
My hands weren’t fit to fight bare hands or of anything else that required a violent use of them.

  
A night, overwhelmed by the suffocating insanity that had me chained up, I knocked down one of the shelves in the section with the most ancient books, essentially a display.

  
I was out of breathe, my hands were shaking and hurting, a rage mixed with powerlessness ever felt in my life was digging deeper and deeper inside of me.

  
I had realized that I had injured myself only when, amongst the shattered glasses of what was left of the display,I had noticed a sort of small drawer.

  
A small drawer hidden in the wall.

  
I pounced on that skimpy drawer, falling on my knees on wooden splinters and glass shards.

  
I managed to open it.

  
In that gap, there were six small volumes.

  
All differents.

  
For a moment I’m sure I’d completely gone insane.

  
I didn’t know what to do next.

  
But then i took a step back.

  
I came back to my senses.

  
I completely opened the drawer.

  
A light blue consumed ace of spade, clearly written in ink, popped out among the others.

  
I felt the key in my mind turning again in the lock.

  
I took the book with shaking and slightly wounded hands.

  
Daemon Spade’s Diary.

  
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Oh shit….I have find you.

  
In my mortal hands...his memories.

  
He was there.

  
I cried.

  
Softly.

  
For once, like a girl.

  
I’ve already said that read was the only thing I really ever had,

  
But it can hurt.

  
It destroys.

  
It kills.

  
It grinds.

  
It obliterates.

  
Like possessed by a thrilling peace, I’ve read that diary.

  
Calmly.

  
A page after another.

  
I enjoyed every word.

  
Two weeks later I was only at half of my way in his memories:

  
They were neither 150 pages!

  
I’d read slowly…

  
Because I could feel him narrating me every he’ve had writtinen in it…

  
I could feel him.

  
I could feel him close.

  
I was sure to be able to see him,too.

  
If I’ve closed my eyes I could see him in front of my, talking about himself or what was happening in his life.

  
I’d dreamed him often,

  
Tenderly,

  
In love…

  
I got back at feeding my body and at letting it sleep, in those two weeks.

  
Phantasma was croaking at him happily.

  
The library wasn’t necessary to me anymore,

  
Daemon’s diary was always with me, hidden in one of the many pockets of my robes, hidden by illusions themself.

  
I got back in shape.

  
My skin bright.

  
I was smiling.

  
Maybe I was even beautiful.

  
There was a mission after two weeks that I’ve started reading the diary: since my good mood, the chieves took courage and assigned me a small group for that job, five or six people, not more.

  
I didn’t complain.

  
In the small town where the operation was taking place there was a ruined manor.

  
It seemed to have being built recently and by very rich people.

  
At job done my group and I went to sit on the remains of the manor, a few of them filling the mission’s papers while I ended up sitting on a fallen column at the bottom of what, at its time, was the stairway of the main ballroom.

  
As habit, I took out the diary of the man that I, foolishly, was considering a lover.

  
What are you doing over there, Young Lady??

  
I neither had time to start the first line that a man, an old man with a cane, surprisely getting my gender, showed up within the ruins, nearly outraged by my presence there.

  
Excuse me?

  
I barely asked him, lifting my head to look at him.

  
I asked you, young lady, what were you doing there!! You must come from outside the town to not know  where you are sitting!

  
Of course I didn’t understand what he was trying to tell me.

  
Don’t just stand there!! Get up! For the sweet soul of that poor girl!!

  
He shouted more, shaking his arms making me understand with obvious gestures to get up.

  
Can you please explain me of what the hell are you talking about??

  
I asked with very poor delicacy, shocking the old man.

  
Miss Elena!! The sweet, unlucky Miss Elena!!

  
He shouted again, on the verge of crying.

  
That poor lady has died under that column, in the arms of Sir Daemon Spade! That poor man loved her so much!! And he saw her die in his arms!!

  
He explained, crying a bit but loudly, making my group to come where I was, in a hurry.

  
Everything ended there.

  
The old man ran away terrified, screaming.

  
The men behind me were brutally killed by horrendous shadows coming out from under my cape.

  
Among the screams of those agonizing men I rapidly flipped through the diary to its end.

  
It was all true.

  
Cries were audible over my head.

  
Then a flood of blood.

  
The diary fall on the ground.

  
The ruins of the manor started to tremble.

  
There was me…

  
In the middle of the desolation…

  
Within the ruins…

  
In a pool of blood…

  
The robes so soaked with blood to make it distinguishable on the black fabric…

  
A scream.

  
Loud.

  
Deafening.

  
That shaken the gods themself.

  
I cried.

  
I cried as woman.

  
An endless howl.

  
That still echoes.

  
You broke my heart, you fucking bitch.

  


  


  


**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading/kudos/bookmark/comments!  
> Viper is my all time favorite character (with Grell) and years of roleplaying made up this paring♥  
> I love Mist guardians so try to understand why i came out with this ahah  
> Hope to make new fans of this couple :P  
> p.s. sorry for the weird looking but i can't fix the codes :/ and yeah,i have a strange way to write,but i love short and intense sentences :')


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